


Fey

by MrProphet



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10697253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	Fey

The mists closed in overnight, clinging close and soaking into Morgana’s cloak while she slept. She woke up cold and wet. Her fire was quite smothered and she could coax no life back into it to heat her breakfast. She let a handful of oats soak for a time while she tended to her horse and then chewed the cold mash thoughtfully.

The sun shone weakly through the fog, which showed no sign of burning off. Morgana could see nothing clearly more than five feet away from her, but shapes moved constantly in the mist and her skin prickled with the awareness of some unnatural, but not unwholesome force.

The horse whickered uncomfortably.

“You feel it, don’t you,” Morgana said, rising to stroke the mare’s dark head. “Do you see them?”

She swiftly packed up her camp and saddled the horse. Before mounting, she blindfolded the mare and laid a hand upon her brow. “Trust me,” she murmured, and the animal grew calm, soothed by her touch. “I shall guide you true, brave one.”

They went slowly, for fear of stumbling, with Morgana leading her mare by her halter. Still the mists around them swirled and threw up shapes of people and animals and stranger things. She felt her way ahead with the foot of the slender rowan staff, as tall as herself, which had led her all the way from Orkney, through Frisia and Austrasia, and at last across Aquitaine to this southerly part of the Frankish Kingdoms.

“They said it would be warm here,” she told her mare, when the animal shivered. She dropped back to drape an arm over the animal’s neck, letting a little of her heat bleed into the beast.

The mare bridled suddenly, shying back from something she senses in the mist ahead. Morgana had travelled too long with the animal to think her skittish. She loosed her grip across the mare’s back and grasped her staff in both hand.

Three figures, more solid than the others, moved in the mist. They darkened, thickened and at last emerged; three men, and a fourth behind them, armed and ill-intentioned. Morgana could read the hostility in their gaze, and see the hunger – not for food, but for gain – with which they looked at her thick cloak and fine horse.

“Good day to you, sirs,” Morgana said in her halting Provençal. She took a step away from the mare.

One of the men stepped forward, while the others spread out behind him. All four wore coarse-woven clothes and tattered, much-repaired boots, and the leader had a shirt of rusted, ill-fitting mail which probably hindered him more than it protected. He also carried a sword, which in contrast to the armour had been polished until it shone. One of his cohorts carried a short woodsman’s bow and carried a small axe beside the knife in his belt, the other two were armed with a similar short axe and a boar spear respectively.

Morgana considered flight, her horse could outpace these men and the fog would hinder the archer, but the wand in her hand twitched gently, urging her on past the four ruffians. Besides, the horse would probably trip in the mist and then where would she be?

The leader gave an ungainly bow. “Good day, mistress,” he said. “We are but poor folk; can you spare a little to provide for us?”

Morgana paused for a moment in thought and then patted one of her saddlebags. “There is food and clothing in these bags,” she said slowly, carefully considering every word. “You may take the horse as well, if you swear to care for her.”

“Very generous,” the ruffian said. “But we’ll take your jewels also?”

“I have no jewels,” Morgana replied, “and if I did they would be little good to you. Where would you sell them?” She took the purse from her belt and threw it down. “A few pieces of silver only, but they will be more use to you than jewels. It’s all yours, if you let me pass.”

The leader chuckled softly. “I think you’ve more to give us,” he leered.

Morgana’s hand tightened on the staff and she took a step towards the man. “I have made you a generous offer,” she told the man. “I have offered my horse, my supplies, my food and my money. Take it and leave, and think yourself lucky.” She lowered her voice so that only the leader could hear her. “Push me any further and I shall kill you.”

The man’s eyes narrowed; he was clearly reluctant to back down in front of his men.

Morgana let her eyes flicker downwards. The ruffian stiffened as he felt something tickling the back of his sword hand. He looked down and saw a huge, fat spider crawling over his knuckles.

The leader leaped back with a cry, dropping his sword and beating at his hand. “Get it off!” he screamed. “Get it off me.” He looked up at Morgana with eyes filled with terror.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am Morgana of Cornwall,” she replied softly. “I am called the Fey and I know the tongues of Air and Darkness. I am a traveller in your land, seeking the Vale of Corbenic and the Fastness of Avalon.”

The four men backed away at once, the leader leaving his precious sword where it lay. “You seek for the Lady?” he asked in a whisper.

“I am summoned to study at her hall.”

“It is a  _terrible_  place,” the ruffian warned. “The Lady is served by a company of dark spirits in the shape of ravens, and steals babes from their cradles to raise as her champions. She weaves the mists which cloak this land to hide her devilry.”

“Perhaps,” Morgana allowed. “Now, have we an accord?”

The man shook his head. “We’ll take nothing from you,” he told her. “Go your way, woman of faerie, and trouble us not.”

“I, trouble you?” Morgana asked innocently. “As you wish.” She bent and lifted her purse, never taking her gaze from the ruffians. “Is it far to the Vale?”

“You walk within it now. The lake lies before you, not a league hence. The hall lies upon the island. If you are summoned, a boat shall await you on the shore, if you are not…” He left the sentence unfinished. “Now go. We want no more dealings with the fae than we can avoid.”

Morgana inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Then we shall not meet again,” she told them.


End file.
